


Smile Right Before You Fall

by DetectiveJoan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveJoan/pseuds/DetectiveJoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles dies slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile Right Before You Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Bigger Than Love_ by My Favorite Highway

Stiles dies slowly.

When they first get the diagnosis, Scott is sitting in a chair beside Stiles’ hospital bed but leaning so far forward he might as well be kneeling. He grasps Stiles’ hand hard enough that Stiles idly wonders if Scott could break his fingers without realizing he was doing so.

“We can fix this,” Scott says as soon as the doctor leaves. “The bite –”

“No,” Stiles says automatically, harshly. Most of his brain seems to have shut off but the part that is in charge of sticking by his stupider decisions still seems to be running at full throttle.“I mean, as a last resort only. This isn’t exactly incurable, y'know?”

Scott fixes him with that stare that silently articulates exactly how badly he thinks Stiles has missed the point.

“I’m just saying there’s got to be some sort of medical magic that doesn’t involve full-blown werewolfitude,” Stiles defends. “We’ll ask around – Derek might know something. Or maybe Allison’s dad. And we’ll see if the doctors can do anything.”

Scott continues to stare at him. “And if they can’t? If we can’t find anything else?”

Stiles swallows and looks away. He doesn’t answer.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether Stiles would have consented or not. Before they’ve explored half of the avenues that look likely to yield results, he becomes sick enough that the bite would only serve to kill him faster.

“I could have stopped this,” Scott says one day when they’re tangled up in each other in the hospital bed Stiles has barely been able to roll himself out of for the past week. He’s lying with his head pillowed on Stiles chest, tracing the lines of Stile’s ribs where they protrude obscenely against his taut skin.

“Maybe,” Stiles admits, the word muffled from where he’s pressing his lips into Scott’s hair, “but I would have hated you for it. This is better.”

Scott almost laughs. “You’d rather die than hate me?”

“Yeah. Well, I can’t remember much of what living was like before I loved you.” Stiles tries to shrug, a jerky, aborted movement. “I’d rather not find out what it’s like after. And besides, it’s not like death’s exactly a new thing for us. We’ve been to so many funerals since Sophomore year, I’ve probably got Heaven’s largest welcoming committee waiting around for me.”

This sentiment isn’t exactly comforting, not least because of the way Stiles’ voice quavers towards the end. Scott turns his head to give him a questioning look. He knows his chin is digging into Stiles’ shoulder at that angle that usually gets him pushed away with an exasperated groan, but Scott doesn’t move to a more comfortable position and Stiles doesn’t protest.

Stiles’ eyes are watery and his jaw is clenched tightly in the way that means he’s trying not to cry. He reaches down to lace his fingers through Scott’s. When he speaks again the words are barely above a whisper. “I think I’d like to see my mom again.”

On his birthday, Scott gets home from the hospital to find a large bottle on his desk and an accompanying note from Derek explaining that, during her time in South America, Cora had discovered an alcoholic beverage strong enough to get werewolves moderately buzzed. Not that Derek was advocating alcoholism, the note related pointedly, but if anyone might be in need of a strong drink in the next few weeks it would be Scott.

Scott thinks about Stiles’ first, utterly disastrous attempt to get him drunk in the woods. He tucks the bottle in the back of his closet and the note in the back of his wallet.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” Scott admits late one night when they’re lying in the dark and he can tell Stiles has nearly fallen asleep on him.

“Don’t have to worry about it,” Stiles mumbles. “Y'still got me.”

After the funeral, Scott drives the jeep to the woods, parks in the first particularly desolate bit of nowhere he can find, and drinks until the bottle’s empty. He doesn’t remember much the next morning, but he remembers that it didn’t dull the pain. He wonders if anything ever will.


End file.
